Baggage
by WannabeDragronTamer88
Summary: The mission is simple, Grab bag, get on connecting flight, use journal to activate the winter soldier, take down the Avengers. Things become less simple when Zemo ends up with a bag identical to his own in every way, except for the contents. What follows is a mad chase to retrieve the bag that rightfully belongs to him, from the man who stole it, and Zemo will stop at NOTHING...
1. Taken, Tazed

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

* * *

 **Switched**

The airport wasn't overly crowded. At 6am on a Thursday morning, that fact wasn't surprising. Most of the patrons milling about, due to the lack of needing to rush about or push past people, moving at an easy pace, mostly minding their own business, everyone probably at least half asleep.

That probably was why he took notice of the guy in the green sweater.

For one, it was New York in May, so even at the early hour the heat was nearly blistering.

But the man had rushed past, eyes squinted behind thick-rimmed glasses, wearing clothes that had gone out of fashion ten years ago, pulling his sweater tight against his body as if he were cold, gaze intent on the baggage claim sign, blinking sadly above his head.

The man reached the baggage claim, his whole body vibrating with tension, the only movement he allowed himself an impatient tapping of his foot.

It was kind of funny. 100 degrees – wearing a sweater. 6am – in a rush. Impatient – fully in control.

The man had a story, it was obvious. But in an airport, everyone had a story. Everyone was going somewhere.

This man was no different. But his actions made him stick out from the others.

* * *

Green eyes watched the man in the green sweater with undisguised interest. As the baggage claim whirred suddenly, coming to life and bringing gifts, the man tensed further, if that was possible. His eyes widened and he scanned each new piece of luggage eagerly, his mouth twitching in irritation as each revealed baggage that seemed to mean nothing to him.

Finally, a brown bag with a shoulder strap and a black buckle was revealed, and the man shot forward, shoving two people out of the way in his haste to reach his bag. Throwing the shoulder strap over one arm and paying no attention to his surroundings, the man took his leave.

* * *

Green eyes watched him go, along with the disgruntled looks of the man and woman he'd shoved aside, though the green eyes watched with amusement.

After a moment, he turned back to perusing the baggage claim, surprised to find his bag had appeared when he'd been otherwise distracted.

He grabbed the shoulder strap and slung it over his head, letting the deep brown bag settle against his opposite hip.

Playing with the black buckle on his back absentmindedly, he took his time exiting the airport: he was in no rush.

It was only 6am, for goodness sakes!

Although, in hindsight, if he'd known how his day was going to go, he would've walked a little faster.

* * *

The man in the green sweater rounded the corner, eyes intent on the exit, when he noticed something. He slowed his pace, noticed an alcove out of the corner of his eye, and changed direction.

Once in the safety of the alcove, he flipped open the top of his bag, eyes searching out the small red book that would help him exact his revenge.

His heart didn't so much sink as plummet, when he realized the notebook wasn't there.

Neither, in fact, was any of his stuff.

Not the small black pouch that carried the fake facial hair, nor the black cotton mask, or the diagram for a bomb, all of which he'd used to blame a terrorist attack on someone else. Not even the credentials he'd faked, that would help him get close to the man who had the answers he needed.

Instead, the bag housed a bottle of fine wine, a novel in French, dog-eared and obviously well-read, and what smelled like a take-away box filled with tamales.

This was not his bag.

So where was it?

* * *

He exited the alcove frantically, eyeing the crowd around him, searching for the thief.

Fortunately for the man in the green sweater, the airport was not crowded.

So he caught sight of the man with the green eyes, wearing a loose gray suit, the suit jacket wrapped over one arm, the sleeves of the white button-up folded to the elbows, one of the mans hands clasping the strap of a dark brown shoulder bag with a black buckle.

He would never reach the thief in time.

But it would be alright: there was no need to panic.

He had a plan.

* * *

 **Tazed**

"Excuse me,"

Smiling politely, mere feet from the exit, the light touch on his elbow and the authoritative voice had him turning to face the speaker, a tall security officer wearing a serious expression, two officers standing behind him.

"I'm sorry, but you've been selected as a part of a random search. Would you mind following us to the security office? This will just take a moment."

His polite smile turned into one of confusion, but he simply nodded amiably and followed the officers to a small room that held only a table and two chairs.

"Have a seat," the main officer said. "But first, would you mind allowing one of our men to search your bag while we chat?"

The green eyes darted nervously to his left, but he nodded nonetheless, and with a look, one of the officers carefully carried the bag out of the room.

"Is everything alright?" The green eyes returned to the officer, those eyes worried now.

Instead of answering the question, the man raised an eyebrow. "Can you tell us your name?

"Zach Daniels, sir."

"Occupation?"

"Sports therapist, for the Saints, sir."

"Football?" The officer smiled slightly. "I'm a Seahawks fan myself."

"Patriots," Zach Daniels shrugged. "But don't tell my team that," he grinned, and the officer returned the smile.

"Your reason for visiting New York?" The officer asked, but Zach's occupation had done wonders for the man's gruff exterior; now his questions were asked in a lighter tone, his expression open.

"Just got in to visit some friends; and to try and recover from the game last night." Zach grimaced. "The one we got slaughtered in."

The officer laughed. "A busy night on your end!"

"You're telling me!" Zach joined in with the officer, his worry dissipating. "So," He said suddenly, "Uh, why'd the other officer take my bag?"

"Had an anonymous tip come in about a bomb being delivered in a brown shoulder bag." The officer shrugged lightly as if bomb threats came in every day.

Knowing the airports, perhaps they did.

* * *

Zach raised an eyebrow in surprise, but he didn't worry.

He didn't have a bomb in his bag, why would he be worried?

"Don't worry, we're checking every bag that matches the description. I'm sure you're fine."

And just as the guard spoke, his colleague came back, Zach's bag in hand.

"Clear," he announced, and Zach sagged in relief, although he'd already known it would be clear.

He knew what was in his own bag!

And while it was certainly embarrassing, it wasn't a bomb.

The guard handed the bag back to Zach, an eyebrow raised in judgement, and Zach flushed, but gratefully accepted his bag back.

"You're good to go, sir." The guard said gruffly.

"We appreciate you're cooperation," the other guard added. "I hope the Saint's next football game is less violent, Mr. Daniels, for your sake."

And Zach laughed as he was escorted back to the main lobby. "You and me both!" he agreed. "You and me both."

* * *

The anger coursing through was so intense, it was nearly tangible in the air.

None of what had just occurred had gone according to plan.

The idiot American guards were supposed to frisk the man right there! They were supposed to show their usual American aggression and upend the contents on the ground: and the thief was supposed to become enraged, and cause a scene, so that, if nothing else, he could've snuck in and at least snatched the crimson journal that was currently so crucial to his plan!

Where had the cordiality come from, the politeness? American's weren't supposed to be capable of either, and YET.

And now the man had left the airport.

Intending to follow, he stepped out from behind the pillar he'd been hiding behind, hand gripping his thief's bag angrily.

* * *

"excuse me, sir," a voice spoke directly behind him, and so angry was he that he responded harshly in his native tongue.

"Sir, if you would just follow me," the voice continued, deeper and more cold, the polite tones dropping away.

He didn't turn around, too intent on following the thief, and using a harsher tone, he repeated himself, still in his native tongue.

Instead of another comment, a large hand was physically stopping him from moving forward, and another hand was reaching for the bag.

Enraged, he attempted to whirl around to physically fight the man holding onto him, but suddenly something was pressed against his neck, and bolts of electricity shocked him into silence.

* * *

Four hours, a strip search, and an agonizing interrogation done by an American with a horrifying accent later, and he was finally released.

All was not lost: it couldn't be.

For he had heard, as the thief was leaving the airport, one of the idiot American guards say,

"I hope the Saint's next football game is less violent for your sake, Mr. Daniels."

Clues. Oh so many clues.

And clues – they meant hope.

* * *

 **Poor guy...It's just not his day!**

 **Review/Follow/Favorite?**

 **~CLC~**


	2. Tailed, Thwacked

**See Chapter One for Disclaimer**

* * *

 **Tailed**

It took three hours to find the man: to find Zach Daniels.

Two of those hours were spent scouring the internet.

The Saints were a football team, not the best, and not the worst.

That meant that it was mostly unimportant, rarely mentioned. It took an insane amount of time to inspect the rosters, and an hour to realize that Zach Daniels did not play for the Saints.

Instead, he must work for them.

The next hour was spent hacking and perusing personnel reports.

Finally, Zach Daniels was found: a sports therapist who listed his permanent address as a place in Houston.

Seeing as they were in New York City, he would've been out of luck, had he not been intelligent.

The rest of Zach Daniels' file mentioned an emergency contact, a name that was unfortunately familiar.

Not only had he been forced to miss his connecting flight, but the very place he'd been heading was the same place Mr. Daniel's emergency contact was currently located.

Mr. Daniel taking his bag had not been an accident: it had been a mission; one his friend had put him up to.

And now that he knew the game, Mr. Daniel's was no longer going to get off easy.

* * *

"Looking for anything in particular?"

Zach startled, his bag nearly flying off his shoulder. The elderly woman smiling patiently at his side just blinked.

"Oh, uh," Zach smiled awkwardly. "Yes, actually. I'm meeting with a friend I haven't seen in years, and I don't want to go in empty handed."

"Well of course not, that would hardly be good manners!" The woman teased lightly. "Is this friend a romantic interest?" She asked lightly, and Zach's cheeks burned.

"No, he's a guy."

The woman just blinked at him, and Zach coughed. "No – we're just friends."

"Well flowers and chocolates are out. How about a nice wine?"

"I uh, don't think he's a big drinker; it was a big vice for all of us during our tours."

"Army." The woman's eyes sharpened. "Well then, how about a food you didn't have access to while overseas, one perhaps he mentioned a particular craving for?"

And Zach had sudden clarity of a moment, after the deaths of friends, while the war still raged and the jets still called, drunker than a skunk but still coherent enough to dream of things left at home: women, families, and a particular treat, fried and yellow and something they hadn't had access to overseas.

"Thank you ma'am," He smiled brightly, and she smiled back.

"No," she corrected, "Thank you. Have a good day!" Zach hurried for the aisle he was looking for, accidentally bumping into someone along the way.

He turned slightly to apologize, but the man kept moving, turning the corner so quickly that all Zach saw was a flash of green.

Zach frowned slightly, then shrugged and continued on his mission.

His sense of foreboding was random, and totally unwarranted, of course.

* * *

Grinning slightly as he sped around the corner, his hand twitching from the precision he'd just had to use to slip something into Mr. Daniel's bag, he knew all he would have to do was wait. Once the man had made the detectors go off, his bag would of COURSE have to be searched, and then hopefully he could sneak in, take back the journal and it would all be fine.

His plan could NOT be derailed, not after he'd worked for so long on it.

This Zach Daniels, this sneaky American who thought he could get away with acting innocent, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Once a soldier, always a soldier.

* * *

"I promise you, you don't have to look in my bag."

"You could be a terrorist."

"I'm not a terrorist!"

Zach could not believe this. Worst day ever. "I just came in to buy some Twinkies!"

"Oh really?" For a supermarket, these guys were very paranoid. "Then why won't you show us the bag?"

"Guys!" Zach pleaded. "I'm just ex air-force trying to recover from that horrible game against the Raiders by meeting with another veteran for drinks! I'm not a terrorist, but I do value my privacy! You can look through it, just don't take anything out or keep the bag, please!" Zach flushed bright red.

"Against the Raiders, huh?" The man holding tight to Zach's bag loosened his grip slightly. "You play for the Saints then?"

"Work with the team, yeah," Zach admitted miserably. "I'm a sports therapist."

The man considered Zach for a moment, then lifted the flap of Zach's bag slowly. His eyes widened, and his hand dipped inside, and Zach grimaced, but the man simply pulled out a candy bar.

"Must've just fallen in," the man said simply, and then he handed the bag back. "We're sorry for wasting your time."

Zach blinked dumbly.

"You're free to go."

That was it?

* * *

That was IT?!

What was this American saying, that he'd been able to just walk away so easily…more than ONCE?

The frustration was rising and the clock was ticking, and he needed his bag back, and he needed it NOW.

Going the subtle route had not worked.

It was now time to be more obvious.

* * *

 **Taken**

"What do you mean you're in Germany? What happened to "We both work too hard, let's take a break!? Let's meet up for drinks! I could've flown straight home and been in bed already – but instead, I stopped in YOUR crazy hometown so we could meet up, and you're not even here?" Zach took a detour, shoving his way into a nearby coffee shop angrily, throwing his bag on top of a nearby table and sliding into an empty chair. "So where are you?!"

Green eyes widened. "You're kidding me. Right. Well, let me know if there's anything I can do? My brother's a lawyer you know."

"Right. Okay then. No, I'll be fine; I'll just grab the next flight out of here. Seriously, I'm good." All of the anger drained out of Zach, and he even smiled slightly as he listened to the man on the other end of the phone. "Stay safe, alright? See you later, Wilson."

Zach hung up his phone and made a face. Then he smiled at the woman the next table over. "Would you mind watching my bag for just a moment? He asked politely. "I'm going to run to the restroom."

The woman smiled and nodded and Zach left his bag to head to a door on the other side of the building, and the man who'd been watching, who'd followed Zach from his friend's residence to a veteran's hospital his friend had been volunteering at, to the coffee shop both men were currently standing in, finally saw his chance.

* * *

He didn't think the woman seated at the next table, who'd vowed to watch Zach Daniel's bag, would take her job so seriously.

Before he'd even made it three feet from the table, Zach Daniel's bag over his shoulder, the woman had noticed.

And being the vicious American she was (and a new Yorker, at that,) the woman didn't stop to ask questions.

Instead, she was flying out of her seat, using her own bag, an expensive looking purse with a heavy buckle (that hurt when it made contact with one's head,) to attack whom she thought was a thief.

It was hardly stealing when the bag he had taken was his own!

But two burly men had come to the woman's rescue, even if she hadn't exactly needed it by the time they'd arrived, and he'd been manhandled from the shop, WITHOUT the bag.

He hadn't even been given an opportunity to grab what it was he really needed.

It was now time for drastic measures.

* * *

 **What exactly does DRASTIC MEASURES mean?!**

 **Review/Follow/Favorite?**

 **~CLC~**


	3. Theft, Third

**See Chapter One for Disclaimer**

* * *

 **Threatened**

"Hello, how may I help you?"

Zach smiled easily at the teller in front of him, a pretty lady with perfectly coiffed hair and red lipstick on.

"Hi, miss, I just need to make a deposit into my account."

Zach began to fish in the pocket of his jeans for his wallet, freezing at the click.

He'd been out of the war for almost three years, but he would know that sound anywhere.

He turned slowly, hands raised in surrender, turning to face whoever was holding the gun on him. His eyebrows furrowed, catching on the dark green of the man's sweater.

Why was it so familiar?

"Finally," The man in front of him drawled, his eyes wide and crazy-looking behind his glasses. "Here you are."

Zach blinked. "Uh, yeah. Here I am?" He was thoroughly confused, but also didn't want to get shot. Best to just let the crazy man do his thing.

"You, Mr. Daniels," the man sneered "are a hard man to pin down."

And Zach, being Zach, simply laughed. "I'm a busy man," he admitted easily. "I got a lot of friends."

"Ah yes," Green sweater sneered, his gun still aimed right at Zach's heart. "I am aware. It is unfortunate that you will not be alive to meet with Mr. Sam Wilson."

"Wait." Suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore. Zach squinted at green sweater. "How do you know Sam?"

"I'm not acquainted with the man personally," he admitted. "He's just yet another adversary I have to face."

"He's an Avenger, dude," Zach snorted. "He's the one fighting the bad guys, he isn't a bad guy HIMSELF,"

"He's not." Green sweater agreed. "I am."

Zach blinked. Plot twist.

"And I was simply on my way to finish what I'd begun, when YOU –" Green sweater suddenly became angry again, his eyes glinting – back to crazy mode. "You took something that did not belong to you, and now? I'd like it BACK."

"I didn't take anything from you," Zach tried to reason, but green sweater became furious.

"You took everything from me!" He screamed. "I impersonated the Winter Soldier, I set off a bomb, I KILLED people, and all you had to do was steal my bag! With the time wasted chasing you down all afternoon, with the contents of my bag kept from me, and I've lost it ALL!"

"Dude!" Zach screamed back, just as frantic, but not entirely certain why. "I didn't take your bag! Or your anything!"

"Yes – YESS," the man hissed. "That bag on your shoulder, it's mine!"

And even though Zach knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the bag was his, he still grabbed at it like he had something to hide.

Because, well. He DID have something to hide. But it certainly WASN'T what this crazy dude thought.

"Just give me the bag," The man hissed.

"No." Zach saw the man's grip tighten on the gun, and he gulped.

"Give me," the man repeated slowly, "the bag."

Zach gulped and straightened. "You're gonna have to kill me," he said seriously.

The man blinked. The gun in his hand wavered.

Then SWAT was bursting into the room and everyone was falling to the ground.

* * *

One SWAT member snatched Zach's bag away from him before he could stop them, and flipped open the flap, even as Zach screeched loudly.

Everyone froze, watching the SWAT member stare blankly down at the contents of the bag.

"For the love of all things holy," Zach said weakly, "Please,"

But the SWAT guy had no compassion, and probably no soul either, as he flipped the bag over, and over two dozen dismembered Barbie body parts fell to the ground, rolling everywhere.

"Does this bag belong to you?" One guy asked green sweater, and eyes wide, he immediately shook his head.

"No. Not at all. That is not my bag. Definitely not."

And suddenly everyone's attention was back on Zach Daniels.

"My niece likes barbies okay! Just not…all in one piece. It's like puzzles for her, okay!" His voice was shrill, and a little desperate, and the soulless SWAT guy simply bundled up all the Barbie arms and legs, threw them back in the bag, and then escorted Zach and Green Sweater to sit awkwardly in the back of the van.

* * *

Green Sweater watched Zach out of the corner of his eye, and Zach sighed heavily.

"I TOLD you it wasn't your bag," He said resentfully.

"Well I don't have MY bag," Green sweater snapped. "So where is it?"

"How should I know!?" Zach snapped back, angry and embarrassed and vowing never to bring his niece another present ever again.

"I am sorry," Green sweater finally said. "I did not know – I did not expect,"

"Yeah," Zach said a little tiredly. "Who would expect that?"

The two were silent for a moment, and then, Green sweater started laughing unexpectedly.

After a moment, Zach joined in.

It had just…It had been a day.

That was for sure.

The question still lingered though.

If Zach had his own bag, and Green Sweater had someone else's bag,

Where was the HIS bag?

* * *

 **Third**

It was at that exact moment, less than ten miles away, a hand was reaching for the black buckle that adorned a brown bag, flipping the top open and frowning.

"Something wrong, mijo?"

"Nah," was the man's immediate reaction, but then he laughed. "Dude, I think I grabbed the wrong bag!" And being the curious guy that he was, Luis started pulling out some other guys possessions.

"Cuz, you've got that degree, right?"

"Yep, mechanical engineering. What's up?"

"What is that?" Luis handed over a diagram of some sort. "Is it some kind of bear trap or something?"

"Nope." His cousin only glanced at it for a second before handing it back, returning his focus back to the football game. "That's a bomb."

"Oh." Luis frowned. "What kind of hombre just carries this around in his bag at an airport?"

"A gringo," Luis' abuela called out, and Luis snickered, his cousins and family jeering. But then Luis frowned at the small black bag he'd just unzipped, the fake facial hair falling into his hand. He held it up to his face.

"Papa, what do you think?" He smiled cheesily, and Luis dad sniffed.

"No." He said sternly, and Luis dropped the fake beard. His eyes lit up at the sight of the red journal, the smile falling quickly when he opened it. Then he smiled again.

"Sobrina!" He called, his six year old niece appearing at his side with a giggle and a chocolate milk mustache.

"They're teaching you all those weird languages in school, right?"

"Ja, dumm Kopf," she said dutifully, before giggling.

"What language is this?" Luis showed his niece the notebook, and she tilted her head, brown eyes narrowed.

"Russian, tio," she said promptly, and Luis raised an eyebrow. "Translate it, Sobrina," he instructed, and his niece snatched the book from his hand and ran off, giggling.

* * *

An hour later, Luis was leaning back in his mama's armchair, smile wide and phone to his ear.

"Hey Scott! No, I'm sure you're busy, but you're gonna want to hear this one…"

* * *

 ** _Ja, dumm Kopf,_ = Yes, stupid head, in german.**

* * *

 **End!**

 **Review/Follow/Favorite?**

 **~CLC~**


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